


celebrimbor's 42-step plan for aspiring rulers of middle-earth

by starstriker



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, but not enough of one for me to tag it as thus, feanor and curufin are probably emotionally there, galadriel & celebrimbor are a background friendship, its vaguely a role swap au, the major character death is real but also probably not a tear jerker, the target audience is me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25841443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstriker/pseuds/starstriker
Summary: It's not like Celebrimbor's always wanted to take over the world or anything. It's just that, after a while, it seems like the most natural progression of actions.Fortunately, he's got a basically foolproof plan to help him.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 15
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a disaster from start to finish and I'm glad you're here to read it. It takes place in an alternate universe (I hope you've figured that out already) that's much, much more non canon compliant than "Celebrimbor tries to take over Middle-earth", and it's usually safe to assume that if there's anything that seems non canonical it's just something that happened in this universe (i.e, Thangorodrim is a forest, don't worry about it and don't think too hard about it).
> 
> In any case, enjoy!

_step two: share the plan with closest friend and/or best enemy_

“So, what do you think?” Celebrimbor asked, sitting adjacent to Galadriel, who had unfurled the bundle of papers he’d handed her a few minutes prior. Writing covered the sheet she was reading, front and back, in a neat and tidy manner that was completely and purposefully different than, say, the scrawl of Fëanor’s notes or Curufin’s manuscripts. Considering its length, it was unlikely that she’d read it all, but she’d had enough time to get the basic gist of his ideas. Which meant that about any time now, she’d be making up her mind, because this was going to be the sort of thing that she either rejected or embraced wholeheartedly.

It took her a moment to respond as she moved onto the next sheet, looking it over with a gaze nearly as sharp as his father’s had once been, and certainly just as critical. “This is probably going to work,” she said at last. “But–only because this is the exact sort of absolute bullshit that _miraculously_ works against all reasonable odds.” It was an undeniable fact of their universe–Eru appreciated absurdity enough to write it into the Song, and Celebrimbor had learned and thus ruthlessly exploited this fact at every available opportunity.

She set the papers down. “In all other regards, it’s a bad idea.” 

“Oh, definitely,” he said, handing her a glass of wine that he’d waited for this exact moment to pass over. “So you’re in, right?”

Galadriel took a sip, and squinted at the scattered documents with a deep, preemptive regret in her eyes. “You’re very lucky that you’re my favorite Curufinwë.”

“That’s not actually a compliment, coming from you.”

Yet their glasses clinked together, and a single drop of Celebrimbor’s wine blotted out words that might have read ring, somewhere around the twenty fourth out of forty second step–but it probably wasn’t that important anyways.

* * *

_step five: crown yourself high king of the noldor (no actual claim to the throne required, merely recommended)_

There was the Oath, and then there was the Doom, and then there was the Curse, and like every trio before and after them they’d rather neatly defined his life. The Oath for his family, his uncles and his father and his grandfather. The Doom for his people, the Exiles, the kinslayers, or just the Noldor if you were being polite. Finally, the Curse–for Curufinwë Fëanáro, for Curufinwë Atarinkë, for Curufinwë Tyelperinquar. 

Well–not quite. The first two certainly fell under it, but Tyelpë, youngest and kindest, had not. Everyone just assumed he had, because the lives of Feanorians frequently fell neatly into sets of three. But if his father was to be believed–and maybe he was not–he’d never been called Curufinwë at all. 

So he didn’t actually have any excuse, for what he was doing. The Curse of Curufinwë had only stated that those of his grandfather’s line who bore his name would be gifted with terrible ideas and the power to convince everyone around them of their validity, hence bringing ruin to all their followers and/or loved ones. He saw no reason why he shouldn’t be in the clear–again, if he trusted his father, which he wasn’t sure he did. 

The evidence stood as thus: Galadriel had been able to recognize that, objectively speaking, his forty-two step plan to take over all of Middle-earth was a bad one. Celebrimbor could certainly see how this could be interpreted as the Curse not, in fact, falling over him. But then there was the additional question of whether it only mattered if it was Namo’s perception of who was a Curufinwë or not…

...But he digressed, significantly. He’d be putting the Curse or lack thereof to the test very shortly now, so any possible navel-gazing or other speculations should be put to the side until he was either driven out of the city or rode out of it with half of Gil-galad’s host. 

It had been a long time since he’d looked in a mirror and seen grandfather staring back at him. Looking at Fëanor’s image now, he didn’t know whether he’d missed it or not. The only thing that ruined the illusion was the stolen crown from Gil-galad–his grandfather wouldn’t have been caught dead in any shade of blue so close to Fingolfin’s colors. 

He made him see himself again. If he wanted this to work, he was going to have to do even better than Fëanor had, considering he hadn’t managed to keep his people together. No, there was only him now, only (Curufinwë?) Tyelperinquar. 

Leaving the mirror behind, he headed for the balcony, a red cape trailing behind him. 

* * *

Later, when he’s successfully convinced half of Gil-galad’s people to follow him instead–

“So, your father lied, then?” Galadriel asked him, riding beside Celebrimbor on a milk-white steed (and behind her, a very bewildered Celeborn rode as well). 

Celebrimbor only shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “But grandfather didn’t have the curse when he convinced us all to leave for Beleriand, and that was probably the worse idea. Clearly, our kind can do some remarkably foolish things even without any outside interference.”

She tilted her head in what might have been capitulation, but was probably just a dismissal of the discussion for later.

* * *  
_step ten: seduce a maia (any sufficiently foolish maia will do)_

Historically, members of the House of Finwë that rode into mysterious forests ruled by capricious Maiar tended not to come out–or at least left behind a limb, in the case of Maedhros. That, or they were cursed upon exiting, so long as you counted bearing a Silmaril as a curse (which Celebrimbor, having a basic grasp of history, certainly did). This Maia in particular had an unfortunate past with his family, every branch of it, even with a generous interpretation of some of his actions.

He was hoping but not necessarily expecting to be an exception. What he had on his side was not inconsiderable: he was inordinately charismatic and carried a wealth of wisdom from those that had come before him, and unlike many of his house he didn’t make a habit of insulting rulers in their own kingdoms unless he was very certain that he could beat them in single combat. The latter was probably his greatest boon, he thought. 

Unfortunately Celebrimbor was not currently in possession of the virtue of humility. He’d had to leave it behind when he stole part of his cousin’s people (really it was just easier to assume that any vaguely Noldor noble was his cousin in some way) and he hadn’t missed it yet, but perhaps this would be the day that he regretted not taking it with him. But probably not, because he couldn’t see any of his plans going awry. They were, after all, made by him. 

But he digressed significantly, as he tended to do. He’d become thoroughly lost in these woods and surely its lord would soon become interested in the newest Noldor prince (no, king now, how embarrassing to have forgotten) to have stumbled upon his realm. 

He dismounted, found a sunny patch of grass, and sat cross legged while his horse grazed on the tender blades. It only took a few hours for his predictions to come true. 

“You folk don’t ever learn, do you?” came the voice from above and behind him, where a fox-earred maia lounged on a tree branch that should not have supported his weight. He was dressed in fashions that were two millennia out of date but were sure to be dragged kicking and screaming back into vogue if he ever left his woods to show them off again, and Celebrimbor had always liked some of those multi-layered looks from the First Age that seemed to spit in the face of both the Helcaraxë and Himring with their warmth. 

“Why would we ever learn a lesson that permanently sundered us from you?” he said, beaming as he spoke. “Hello, Mairon.”

“Tyelperinquar,” he said, equally amiable. They had never met, but both knew of the other (he heard that Mairon memorized the House of Finwë’s family tree once he realized the Noldorin nobles were going to continue bothering him until the Second Music). “Is it Celebrimbor? I’ve never kept up with which of you folk cared about Thingol’s ban and which of you didn’t.”

“Oh, I don’t care in the slightest anymore, but it is Celebrimbor,” Celebrimbor said. 

Both of them waited in silence for the other to speak, until Mairon lifted himself up into sitting on the branch. Celebrimbor noticed he had a tail, and wondered if that was normal or just for fun (could you accessorize with shape-shifting? Were extra ears and tails like necklaces and bracelets for the Maiar? He should ask that, it would be a good conversation topic). 

The Maia cocked his head and Celebrimbor was reminded first of Huan and then of the werewolves that tore Finrod apart, which was not an ideal thing to be reminded of in this particular situation. “Aren’t you going to ask me for something?”

“Yes,” Celebrimbor responded. “But I didn’t think I should be rude about it.”

“Likely wise,” and they both reflected briefly on everyone who had chosen to be rude to Mairon, and how few of them were left alive. 

“I was curious,” he said, feeling confident that he was now alright to broach the topic. “If you would be interested in conquering Middle-earth. Together. Romantically?”

There was another moment of silence in which Celebrimbor wasn’t sure what else to do except wait patiently to either get a response or be killed on the spot, so that was exactly what he did. Just as he was wondering if he should try and walk out of the woods in shame and never show his face anywhere ever again, Mairon spoke. “I’m...you know I am married, right? To Melkor? The Vala? You know him?”

“And it was probably fun the first time, so don’t you want to do it again? I’m a step down from one of the Valar, admittedly, but I did just crown myself High King of the Noldor, so at least I’m an interesting step down. I don’t think you’ve ever been married to a High King of the Noldor–please don’t tell me if you have I don’t actually want to know.”

“I’ve never been married to a High King of the Noldor,” Mairon said, and it sounded truthful, which meant nothing when talking to Mairon. 

“New age, new experiences–new spouse!” he said, “Plus, conquering the world, I cannot stress that enough. That’s the plan.” And if it involves stealing some of your soul to put in a ring so I can wield the power of the Ainur, well, I promise I’ll give it back eventually, Celebrimbor most certainly did not say. 

“It does sound fun,” Mairon admitted. “And I’ve been very bored here.”

He could imagine, and also sympathize. Having the full time job of being constantly sad and repentant for several centuries hadn’t been very exciting, and had left Celebrimbor with an itch to do anything that didn’t involve standing near Gil-galad and looking apologetic. Lurking in a dimly lit forest was probably very dramatic and good for recuperating from the War of the Wrath, but likely got old fast. “So you’re interested?”

Mairon gave him a final once over. “Yes,” he said, and he made it sound like a grudging confession. 

They rode out of the forest on Celebrimbor’s horse, Mairon’s arms hesitantly wrapped around his waist. “When would you like to get married?” he asked, rather politely, because long rides were boring with no conversation and no staring determinedly at the horizon. 

“If that’s your proposal, I’m getting a preemptive divorce,” said Mairon, who was looking back at the woods a bit forlornly. 

“Oh, it isn’t, but before we’re engaged we should be in agreement on when we are to be wed. It’s best to plan this sort of thing in advance.”

The logic was flawed, but also undeniable if one did not wish to sink to fighting it with equally absurd claims, and Mairon was uninterested in starting what was looking to be a promising relationship with a fight. “I’ve always liked fall,” he said absently. “Next year, do you think, very proper and Noldorin for you.”

“Fall is perfect,” Celebrimbor said, turning so he could brush his fingers through a few strands of auburn hair. “The season is set then.”

And maybe Mairon briefly wondered why his hand left with a single thread of hair still in his grasp, but then maybe he didn’t. Or maybe he merely thought it was the work of clumsy fingered elves and thought nothing more of it, even when Celebrimbor’s hand tucked it into his robe, right above his heart, for safekeeping and future use.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like the first chapter, but faster and more chaotic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's technically a few warnings for this chapter (mostly because of that major character death tag), I put them in the end notes if you're worried about them.
> 
> Thanks for coming on this wild ride!

_step twenty-four: make some rings_

There were smiths that went their whole careers without Singing, and for the most part their craft was no lesser for it. Swords meant to outfit an army were impractical to use Song for, and most would find it exhausting to use it for any sort of mundane item. But Celebrimbor remembered another time, in Valinor, when his grandfather would Sing even while making chalices, which once filled with water would not empty. Even nails he had made in his early years (yes, even Fëanor had once made nails) were Sung, and they did not rust nor dull nor ever enter crooked.

He wasn’t his grandfather, he didn’t have the same inner fire that had eventually consumed him. In that manner, he was more like his father–but whereas Curufin had shied away from Song, for the most part leaving it to his father and Maglor, Celebrimbor wrung every bit of Music he had within him out into his works. It was why he needed– _needed_ –to have Mairon around, because he’d drain any other marriage bond dry the first time he worked himself fully into exhaustion. 

(And he still would deplete Mairon of some of his power. Not all–he promised himself not all–but all of Fëanor’s descendants envied their forefather’s liveliness in some way and sought it for themselves.)

The rings were perfect, all nineteen of them. It was the best collaboration between one of the Ainur and one of the children yet, Celebrimbor thought, for you couldn’t really count the Silmarils as a ‘collaboration’ (maybe even then–no, no, not yet.)

“I’m surprised you’ve made one of them for your cousin,” said Mairon, who was observant, although maybe not observant enough. “You oppose his lord, do you not?”

“There’s one for his _lord_ as well, if you’ll remember,” Celebrimbor said, holding Vilya up to the light. In truth, he suspected that Elrond could bear any of his rings except those he would give to Narvi’s people. For although giving him the Ring of Air was the safe choice, the kind choice, he had three fathers–one lost to fire, one lost to water, one lost to air. Eärendil was just the only one that Celebrimbor was absolutely certain was still alive, and hence the gift would (hopefully) seem less mocking. 

“Even more curious,” Mairon said. 

“That one’s an insult,” he explained, gesturing at Narya. “It’s saying he needs to be more of a Noldo.”

Though his back was turned on the maia, he had the distinct feeling that Mairon was looking at him incredulously. “What sort of person gifts magic rings as insults?” Despite the look the maia was giving him, his tone was playful and light.

“Your husband, evidently,” Celebrimbor said with a little smirk of his own, before turning back to his work.

The last of the rings didn’t even need acknowledgement–they both knew that Celebrimbor had made it with Galadriel in mind, and unsubtly too. Her disapproval would be immense if Celebrimbor started handing out rings like candy and she hadn’t even crossed his mind, and she was his best and longest-held ally. Those sort of people tended to deserve magic rings.

* * *  
_step twenty-eight: accept mairon’s reaction to your sudden but inevitable betrayal_

“It could have gone worse,” Celebrimbor said, a faint hint of hope in his voice. He stood in the one clear spot amongst the shattered glass of the window, and there was a long cut on his hand from where he’d picked up a shard of it.

Galadriel stood to the side, not amidst shattered glass, because she had no reason to attempt to portray her current emotional state in such a dramatic way. “Could it have? Could it have, Celebrimbor?” 

“We saw it coming,” he argued, but didn’t succeed in not sounding miserable. “It’s in the plan.”

“I know, Celebrimbor.”

“It’s step twenty eight.”

“I know,” she said. Against all of her better sense, she did feel what might be perceived as a slight shred of sympathy for her ( _ugh_ ) friend. He’d had it coming, of course–people didn’t usually react well if you stole some of their soul for personal benefit, especially if you were married to them–but what she felt was enough to at least not say that out loud. “I think it was very practical of you to schedule your coping in advance.”

“He jumped out of a window,” Celebrimbor said, leaning fully into the misery. “That’s horribly dramatic. Don’t you think it was overkill? He still has half his soul.”

Galadriel thought it might have been underkill considering they were both alive and staring at that window, but again that was an _internal_ thought for her and her only. “Maybe,” she said, trying to sound noncommittal.

“I don’t think I would have done that,” he grumbled, leaning against the remains of the window and ignoring the new cuts in his forearm. “Even if I could turn into a bird in midair–fuck! Fuck, that was an Elwing reference. Galadriel, was that an Elwing reference?”

Probably, Mairon was the sort of person who would do something like that, which had of course made him perfect for Celebrimbor. “No, of course not, no one makes references like that.”

“At least I still have the ring,” he said, holding it aloft. “It’s sort of like having him around, but much worse.”

_That’s sad_ , she mused, and then thought to say it aloud. “That’s sad,” she said, having stifled enough of her thoughts for one day.

“I am sad,” he agreed. “And I’m rather upset about that too.”

Something about that seemed off. “Wasn’t falling in love with him step twelve? For the marriage bond to work–”

“–Yes, for the marriage bond to work,” he said. The gash in his forearm was staining the remnants of the window red. “It’s still there. He’s still there, Galadriel.”

She sighed, walking over to him to take his other arm in hers. “Come on,” she coaxed. “It’ll be okay, you’re going to see him again. Remember? This will pass, Celebrimbor.”

“Right,” he said, his stare dragged away from the world outside that broken (now blood-stained, ew) window and back to Ost-in-Edhil, their city. She knew he loved this city, and at one point she’d thought he might have loved it more than anything else. 

On principle, and officially, she refused to feel bad for him. Curufinwës never suffered consequences for their actions without a fair deal of moping around first, and she’d always thought that it was best to just leave them to angst it out on their own. Certainly, if this had been Curufin in her arms, mourning her brother’s death from his own machinations, she’d have pushed him out of the window rather than comfort him.

But this was Celebrimbor, and in this room not everything had to be official and principled. 

* * *  
_step thirty-eight: off your rivals_

The fact was that Gil-galad was always going to have to die, even if Celebrimbor didn’t necessarily want that sort of drama in his life. From what he’d generally observed, killing your cousins (even ones that you weren’t sure how they were related to you) was rarely a fantastic idea. But then again, hoping that your rival relatives would simply take it upon themselves to go die quietly rarely worked either (Fingolfin hadn’t died, after all, and Finrod’s death had only earned him more supporters). So thus it fell to Celebrimbor to carry out the fell deed.

At least he’d never really liked him. 

Fortunately, he saw no reason to try and kill Elrond–not that he would even if he did, it was just a matter of fact that you couldn’t kill Elrond. What sort of monster…?

Still, he couldn’t pretend that his actions hadn’t affected his little cousin, who even up until his lord’s death had tried to sway him from his path. It had only been after Gil-galad’s death that he saw Elrond had finally given up on him, and had accepted that they were permanently sundered from each other (in all ways but the way that mattered most, because Elrond was still Maedhros’s son and Celebrimbor was still head of the House of Fëanor). 

They received the news that Elrond had taken control of Lindon a few weeks later, and all of them had stood in shock for a moment before Galadriel let out her breath.

“There you have it,” she said. “You’re the ruler of all of Middle-earth. In a manner of speaking.”

His husband had fled to Mordor, and through him Celebrimbor had a claim to those lands. Elrond, his cousin and a member of his house, ruled Lindon and some of the surrounding lands. The lands belonging to the dwarves were still independent, but were closely allied with Eregion in a bond that was unlikely to ever break.

It was closer than anyone else had ever gotten, and Celebrimbor found himself relaxing. The excitement, he was sure, would come later. For now, there was only the peace and not the rapture of victory.

(Just a few things left, and then he’d be home.)

* * *

_step forty-two: die a memorable death_

Even having planned for one’s own demise, it still came as quite as an unpleasant shock, Celebrimbor thought to himself as he hurtled towards the lava below him. He didn’t have much time to think–about four seconds, he thought–and he’d already wasted one of those being surprised.

Not by the fact that Mairon had, in fact, shoved him off a cliff. He’d been expecting that part. More about the fact he didn’t have a left hand anymore.

Putting that on hold for a second–a valuable, precious second–Celebrimbor reflected further upon his own suddenly inevitable death. It was best this way, for certain, dying in a suitably dramatic method that would stand up even among the rather impressive deaths of the house of Finwë. Sure, he could acknowledge that it wasn’t as impressive as Fingolfin’s, but Melkor wasn’t even around anymore and trying to kill your own husband (who was probably the next best thing) made you an asshole, not cool (he hoped Mairon was recognizing that, right about now, even if Celebrimbor had planned this). 

There was still something annoying him though. Something seemed off, like he was forgetting something very, very important.

He went through the list in his head as quickly as possible, because he was certain that more than two seconds had passed.

He’d told Galadriel what to do immediately following this whole mess.

He’d prepared snappy comebacks for the members of his family most likely to greet and then mock him in the halls.

He’d made sure to send a letter to Elrond (just because they didn’t get along these days to make them not cousins, after all). 

So no, everything seemed just about in order–

–Wait. Missing hand, volcano related death–

_Oh fucking damnit–you couldn’t have been a little more original, Mairon–_

And then Celebrimbor hit the lava, and within a few moments thought no more. 

* * *  
The man that came to Galadriel and Celeborn looked like Celebrimbor as they’d last seen him. He had the same clothing, the same mischievous glint in his eyes. But Galadriel hadn’t spent hundreds of years with Celebrimbor to fall for a fake.

But he talked like Celebrimbor and that was going to have to be enough for now.

“That’s not Celebrimbor,” Celeborn whispered to her, and the man who was definitely not the Lord of Foxes in disguise as his now-deceased husband only pricked his ears a little. 

Galadriel did not say _no shit_. It wasn’t Celeborn’s fault he’d never quite adapted to the natural insanity of her family. “Don’t draw attention to it,” she murmured back.

Both of them had planned for this, after all. Galadriel gave Mairon fifty years of ruling the world, at most, before he gave up on them all and retreated back to Mordor to sulk.

(In the end, she was spot on, and he even took it upon himself to break it all up before he left. Privately relieved that she hadn’t been left in charge of the empire, she left for Lothlórien with her husband and minded her own goddamn business until it was time to sail home.)

* * *  
Celebrimbor woke in the Halls with a fading sense of disappointment, and then a rising sense of frustration and annoyance after he recalled why he was feeling this way. 

He could still spin this, he quickly realized. He was the eldest member of his generation in the House of Fëanor, as were Maedhros and Fëanor himself, and they were both known for their fire-related deaths. He wasn’t _not being unique_ or Eru forbid _copying someone else’s death_ , he was just honoring a family legacy started by that time his grandfather had decided to spontaneously combust, that was all.

Yes. This was still entirely acceptable. He hadn’t wasted centuries of his life to a plan just to fumble at the fiery, fiery finish line. 

“That was incredible,” he heard a familiar voice say, and immediately prepared all of his Curufin-related comebacks just in case he was about to need them ( _just bring up Finrod and he’ll be too upset to insult you in return_ , he reminded himself), but his father sounded genuine in his praise. “I’m still not really sure what you were going for, but what a spectacular result.”

Celebrimbor continued to lie on the floor, for that’s where he had materialized. “I’m a little disappointed,” he admitted, pleasantly surprised that the first time he’d talked with his father in millennia was going so well. “Most of it was spot on, but that bit on the end–”

“–A little rough,” Curufin agreed, coming to sit by him. “But it works as a legacy so long as Elrond doesn’t choose to light himself on fire.” Being Maedhros’s eldest son (he thinks that Elrond’s the older twin at least), if Elrond died by flame it would probably override Celebrimbor’s attempts to justify his death as a matter of legacy.

“He doesn’t think like that,” he protested, sitting up at last. 

Curufin gave a non-committal hum that did not speak wonders for his faith in Elrond’s ability to not die tragically in some sort of fire-related incident. For a moment, they sat in silence, the first instance of peace between them since they’d arrived in Nargothrond an age ago.

“You know that your uncle Maedhros is going to be very upset with you, right?”

Celebrimbor sighed, not looking forward to the immediate future. “Oh, I’m aware.”

At least he was home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gil-galad dies off screen and his death is discussed, Celebrimbor dies on screen and has planned out his own death (not in a suicidal ideation way more "life hack to get to Mandos and also go down in history" kind of way but fair warning)
> 
> Please comment if you have the time/motivation! I really enjoy reading them lol. Thanks again for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated!! (Also I can't believe this was my first Silmarillion fic lol)


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